


like floodwaters, rising

by BlackBlood1872



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Aziraphale helps him through it, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, because it's Crowley what did you expect, crowley has a bad day, reference to the great flood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-12 22:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21233522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBlood1872/pseuds/BlackBlood1872
Summary: London is a terribly rainy city. Crowley knows this. He knew it before the city was settled and he'd become all too aware of it during the many years he spent in the area.But when the rain goes on for days, when the clouds stay dark and heavy with no sign of breaking—he can't help but remember a different storm, one with drastic consequences, and he can't help but think:not again. Please, not again.





	like floodwaters, rising

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, finally some good old fashioned Crowley angst. I'm actually surprised by how long it took me to get here :O  
He may or may not be somewhat ooc in this, but that could just be because I've read over this too much in too little time. I like this enough to post it regardless. I hope you like it too!

It’s raining.

It’s been raining for some time now, and Crowley can’t concentrate. He paces through the bookshop, winding through the rows in mindless circuits. He keeps coming back to the windows, streaked with raindrops and fogged by contrasting temperatures. It’s warm in the shop, radiator humming away as it does it’s best to live up to Crowley’s standards. Outside, the rain chills the air, and the glass between suffers for it, condensation blurring the world beyond into a great grey smudge.

Crowley tears his gaze from the gloom and marches through the stacks again. Rain patters against the glass, the walls, the roof; a low drone that’s become so familiar over the past few days that Crowley could almost tune it out, natural white noise, if only it weren’t _this_. The sound grates at him, twists his already knotted insides tighter, sets his ears ringing. It’s all he can focus on, and it’s making his skin crawl.

His eyes catch on a different window and he freezes, staring once more.

From the desk, Aziraphale heaves a great sigh. “What has gotten into you?” he asks, turning in his chair to look at Crowley, brow furrowed in concern. “I’ve never seen you this restless before.”

Crowley attempts a few words without knowing what words he’s attempting, and then waves a hand aggressively at the window and the waterlogged city behind it. “How long has it been raining?” he asks tersely. He’s rather proud that his voice doesn’t come out sounding as frazzled as he feels.

Aziraphale glances that way, then back to Crowley, bemused. “I haven’t been tracking it, but I suppose it’s been a few days now? No more than three, I’d wager.”

“But it hasn’t _stopped_ in those three days,” Crowley exclaims. He drags a hand through his hair and then grips a chunk at the back, holding tight enough to hurt. He stares, unblinking, out into the rain. “You haven’t heard anything, have you? I know it’s rained before, it's always raining here, but this is too much, isn’t it? It’s been too long, this can’t—She wouldn’t have—”

“Breathe, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, resting a hand on Crowley’s arm, and he hadn’t even noticed the angel moving, hadn’t seen him get up and approach, but he stands in front of him now, blocking his view. He steers Crowley towards the couch, sits him down and holds his gaze so Crowley can’t look away, can’t twist around to keep watch of the never-ending rain. Crowley sucks in an unnecessary breath, and his head clears enough for him to recognise the beginning stages of panic, and to start to fight against it. Aziraphale waits until he’s calmed further, and then squeezes his hand and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“She promised,” Crowley whispers. He remembers a desert, dozens of curious, unsuspecting spectators, _children_, all nestled in the shadow of that blessed _boat_. He remembers the fumbling mention of a shiny new _gift_ for the _trouble_, meant to be something grand and beautiful, and both of them aware of just how cheap it really was. “You told me that She promised, She'd never do it again, it can’t be happening _again_.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth as if to ask ‘_who?_’, as if he doesn’t _know_, and Crowley flicks his eyes upwards before he can, an answer and a plea and naked fear all at once. Aziraphale follows his gaze and then closes his eyes with a small, pained exhale. “Oh, my dear,” he breathes, and lifts their hands to press his mouth against the demon’s skin. Crowley trembles, chilled despite the cozy heat of the shop, of their little home in the middle of an entirely mundane world. Their own safe haven in the eye of this storm.

“She promised,” he says again, numb and small and feeling so much like a child, betrayed by one he thought he could trust. And hating himself for feeling that way, because _when_ has She ever given him a reason to trust Her? In all his years, immeasurable eons—when has She ever been _kind_?

“This will pass,” says Aziraphale, low and soothing as he reaches out to cup Crowley’s cheek, brush his thumb over a sharp cheekbone. “The rain will clear up soon, and everything will still be here. It will be alright.”

Crowley leans into the touch, lets it ground him. ‘_How can I trust that to be true?_’ he thinks but doesn’t say, _can’t_ say. The words stick in his throat like tar, and he feels tattered and strung out, so much like he had back then, adrift with nowhere to land as the world drowned below him. It feels like drowning now, the muted sound of rain like a weight pressing down on him, pulling him under—

Aziraphale presses his forehead against Crowley’s and hums, drawn from somewhere deeper than inside his chest, a dim echo of the harmonies he used to sing. It blocks out the noise of the world around them, until all that’s left is this soft resonance. Until all that matters is the song and the calm it evokes, a gentle haven for Crowley to sink into and feel _safe_.

Crowley loses track of time, after this. It’s meaningless in the face of the melody, the warm points of connection between them. What does time matter when faced with this serenity?

Later, after Aziraphale's voice has faded out and silence fills the bookshop, Crowley opens his eyes. Pale light filters through the windows, dusty as part of the aesthetic more than lack of care, and paints the backroom a soft gold. The world outside is waking up, slowly and quietly, wetter than it usually is, but wonderfully intact. Still here, perhaps a touch cleaner, but largely unchanged.

“See?” Aziraphale says softly, shifting only enough to follow his gaze, but otherwise staying close. “Everything is as it was. All unharmed. She hasn’t taken it away.”

Crowley slumps against him, exhausted beyond reason, and the angel puts his arms around him, rubbing his back in slow circles. Crowley takes a moment to breathe. The air tastes damp, even in the shop, but it’s cool and clean as well. Aziraphale is still wearing his barber recommended cologne, and Crowley buries his nose in the angel’s neck, lets that familiar smell ground him. He presses his cheek against fabric worn soft ages ago, tangles his fingers together at the small of his partner’s back, lets himself bask in the familiar presence of _Aziraphale_.

He shouldn’t be this shook up over a little rain. He doesn’t _want_ to get this upset.

He doesn’t know how to stop.

“_I’ll_ always be here,” Aziraphale whispers into his hair. Like some sort of mind reader, knowing exactly the right words to say to rescue Crowley from his own dreary thoughts.

“Oh, I know _that_,” Crowley mutters. It doesn’t have all of his usual snark, but it’s getting there. It’s certainly better than earlier. “You’re stuck with me now, angel. ‘s no getting rid of me, ‘m afraid.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling,” Aziraphale demurs, and Crowley can practically _feel_ the smile he’s wearing down in his _bones_. It’s like molten warmth through his very being, easing away all his pent up tension, and it’s really no surprise to anyone that Crowley relaxes into it, and between one breath and the next, falls asleep.

It’s easy to do when he knows that everything will be alright, so long as Aziraphale is there to hold him close.


End file.
